#melancholy

She was not crying Which surprised me very much But I understand now That she had found places For her melancholy That were behind more masks Than only her eyes ↗

— Jonathan Safran Foer

#melancholy

She seemed imprisoned in her sadness. ↗

— Sena Jeter Naslund

#melancholy

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano! ↗

— William Shakespeare

#melancholy #melancholy

I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can. ↗

— Sylvia Plath

#sadness #melancholy

Consider the cattle, grazing as they pass you by. They do not know what is meant by yesterday or today, they leap about, eat, rest, digest, leap about again, and so from morn till night and from day to day, fettered to the moment and its pleasure or displeasure, and thus neither melancholy nor bored. [...] A human being may well ask an animal: 'Why do you not speak to me of your happiness but only stand and gaze at me?' The animal would like to answer, and say, 'The reason is I always forget what I was going to say' - but then he forgot this answer too, and stayed silent. ↗

— Friedrich Nietzsche

#melancholy

In such a diversity it was impossible I should be disposed to melancholy. ↗

— Daniel Boone

#diversity #i #impossible #melancholy #should

Melancholy has ceased to be an individual phenomenon, an exception. It has become the class privilege of the wage earner, a mass state of mind that finds its cause wherever life is governed by production quotas. ↗

— Gunther Grass

#cause #ceased #class #earner #exception

Voi rakkaani sydän on kylmä ja sammalta käteni kasvaa Minun reiteni mullassa hajoovat maaksi Ja haudalla risti jo lahona on. Olen maa. Olen maa johon tahdot. ↗

— Timo K. Mukka

#love #melancholy #death

A lot of the time there is a lot of melancholy in the lyrics. ↗

— Will Champion

#lyrics #melancholy #time

In the park which surrounded our house were the ruins of the former mansion of Brentwood, a much smaller and less important house than the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins were picturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who were but temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they somehow reflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had the remains of a tower, an indistinguishable mass of mason-work, overgrown with ivy, and the shells of walls attached to this were half filled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed to say. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with the lower part of the windows still existing, on the principal floor, and underneath other windows, which were perfect, though half filled up with fallen soil, and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growths of all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance were some very commonplace and disjointed fragments of the building, one of them suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of grey wall, all encrusted with lichens, in which was a common doorway. Probably it had been a servants' entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called "the offices" in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered-pantry and kitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the doorway open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wild creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to nothing - closed once perhaps with anxious care, bolted and guarded, now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first; so perhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it an importance, which nothing justified. ("The Open Door") ↗

— Margaret Oliphant

#despair #life #melancholy #ruins #death